Little Tree

She checked the review mirror and then looked over her shoulder. She didn’t look ahead into her lane, just looked to the mirror again. Then the shoulder once more. Finally, she jerked the wheel, swerving into the left lane. My seatbelt locked up, choking me, before yanking me back into the impression of my body that I’d left in the fabric of my seat.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” I panted, checking the clock on the dashboard. I couldn’t read the digital glow, so I reached out a finger and wiped off the dust. 6:34. Twenty-six minutes to go.

“Of course,” Merry grinned. “It was exhilarating, wasn’t it?” She reached up, without taking her eyes from the road, and stilled the air freshener hung from the mirror.

“Is that what smells?” I asked, leaning forward to whiff at the tree-shaped freshener. The only other objects in the front of car were some textbooks and CDs: the Rent and Wicked soundtracks (which I considered sneaking into my backpack when Merry wasn’t looking), Red Hot Chili Peppers, some country artists, a few mixes, and probably some Fall Out Boy. That’s whose concert we were going to see, so I just assumed she had some of their music in the car, even though I didn’t see one of their CDs. She’d asked me if I wanted to listen to something like them, but we both agreed there would be enough of that at the concert.

“Yeah.”

“It’s black… That seems kind of ominous. Black always me of the Plague, and I don’t think that smelled very good. Rotting flesh and all… That would be a terrifying zombie movie.”

She chuckled and glanced at the black tree. “Well, this one is called ‘Black Ice,’ so maybe they wanted to match the name and the color.”

“… Does black ice smell?”

“You know what, Valerie, I really have no idea.”

We both giggled some more, my stomach aching from clenching from laughter, and from her driving skills.

“I think this smells like deodorant,” I got out a few minutes later.

“Oh my god! Like—”

“Old Spice!” we yelled together. She held out her right hand to high five me. I had to rely on the elbow trick in order to actually hit her hand and not her headrest, or worse her face. It wouldn’t have helped her driving.

“Yeah, I really love the smell,” she grinned, waving a hand at the freshener. “I’ve got a whole pack of them in the glove compartment. It makes my car smell like hot man.”

The tree swayed a little in the echo of our laughter, reminding me of one of those hulu-dancers that sit on the dashboard of cars. I couldn’t help but think about how the person who designed these car fresheners probably had some grander agenda then making a teenage girl’s car smell like an attractive man.

“You know… your car doesn’t smell bad.”

“I know,” Merry replied, lifting her shoulders and letting them plunk back down. “But just in case it starts to… then that Little Tree’ll be there.”